The Last of His Kind
by homicidalmommy
Summary: Agron, the fiercest warrior from East of the Rhine, was the only gladiator of the Brotherhood to survive final battle with Marcus Crassus. Yet he is no stranger to survival… R&R, s'il vous plait!


Thoughts race to catch up with time. Realization slackening as moments sped by.

So quickly it came to pass: a flurry of steel and of blood. Loss and vengeance in swift motions. His brother sunk into his arms, grabbing for him as he fell. He did not hear the sound of the blade clutching a thick, bloody wound as he pulled or the screaming of Romans being slaughtered in the villa. Only the soft, pained groans of a child he once knew.

They seemed deafening. The whimpering of a boy with a shy smile, unruly black hair and innocent, approval-seeking eyes hooded with heavy brows that would finally fit his face when he became a man.

Panic-stricken, he cradled the boy in his arms. After years of resisting weakness, resisting fear... sheer terror ripped through his heart.

Then suddenly, a familiar, pungent smell...

...

Conrad stormed into the dismal little hut in a foul mood; the hut reeked of death and the bitter medicinal herbs hanging from the walls. The boy's coughs echoed through the village and grated upon the chieftain's nerves. "Again with that infernal coughing! That boy remains ill of his own accord, I tell you!"

Sigihild rolled her eyes in exasperation; Conrad's daily routine of berating his eldest son wore her patience thin. "Yes, he coughs simply to irritate you. In fact, he is able to instantly heat his body to the point of burning, causing it to sweat and convulse, simply for his own amusement." She soaked a rag in cool water and herbs, and placed it upon the boy's trembling forehead; he would not wince at the stench. "I see now why you are our wise and just leader."

Conrad wrinkled his nose at the concoction and moved to the doorway. He watched Agron's narrow chest heave and rumble as Sigihild rubbed scented oils on the boy, his pale slick skin covered in beads of sweat. His honey-colored hair was matted against his scalp from thrashing; his eyes were sunken orbs in dark circles. The boy looked at him pitifully, which further angered the chieftain; Conrad hated him for his fragility. "Two years of this, Sigihild. Two years! Others have perished from this sweating disease, yet this one survives two years. Every bout worse than the next, consuming the villagers with unnecessary panic."

Sigihild laughed, her eyes brimming with audacious contempt. "A prouder man would brag his son shows fortitude; where all have fallen, he yet breathes. Such modesty!" Agron's coughing resumed, more violently this time, and Sigihild dutifully turned him on his side, cradling him in her arms to keep his body still. She swaddled him in thick wool mats against the cold; his sweat soaked through the sheets.

"That we would be finally rid of him would be true blessing." She ignored his words, hoping Agron could not hear him over the hacking. "You coddle him to the point of castration. You continue to defy me." Conrad moved toward her menacingly. Agron willed his weakened body to lift itself in her defense, but he could barely move his fingers. "Your mother feared me."

Sigihild laid Agron down carefully, pushing his hair from his face, and stood to meet the man's eyes; Sigihild loomed over most of their women and some of their men. Her strong frame cast a shadow over her uncle and the flickering of the candles set her flaxen hair aflame. "My mother was feeble. I fear nothing, least of all a man of your base nature." Conrad unconsciously fingered the deep scar in his left cheek as it became crimson and Sigihild smiled in a sneer, her ice-blue eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Now, if you have no other business here, you should turn focus to the well-being of your tribe." Conrad left in a huff to conceal his embarrassment, thankful that no other witnessed Sigihild berating him so. Sigihild took a deep breath, steadying herself before kneeling at Agron's side.

He knew his half-sister despised tears, so he attempted to conceal them as he spoke. "Apologies, Sigi-"

She placed her fingers upon his lips firmly and the stern look in her eyes stopped his tears in their place. "Sh... Do not apologize for your shitfuck of a father. He is not worthy of the breath needed to take his name. Do you know what I believe?" She threw her shoulders back in pride and defiance. He loved her in these moments; in darkest times, she gave him hope in a single gesture. "I believe that the nights you and your brother were conceived, the Gods granted my father leave from the afterlife to be with our mother. You are not of that mewling manchild. Your veins run strong with the blood of the great Carolus!" Agron's face broke into a smile.

A boy with tangled black hair leapt up from under the cot with a grin. "You are our true sister then!" Sigihild's eyes instantly narrowed in anger and the boy turned red - much like his father - when scared. "Oh..."

"Duro!" Sigihild dragged the boy by his hair and promptly smacked his bottom. He struggled out of her grasp and sat next to Agron, who was always amused by the boy's impudence. "You'll catch your death!"

"No, Sigihild! I've slept under Agron's cot for months and see!" He pressed his forehead against her arm; it was cool to the touch. Sigihild risked contracting the illness to care for Agron, but never fell ill. "No fever! I am like you!"

Sigihild grabbed his arm and struggled with his nest-like locks, trying to conceal her amusement. She winked at Agron. "Foolish boy. Why take such risk?" She asked, braiding the boy's hair past his ears.

Duro fidgeted with the hem of his tunic, tears falling traitorously from his cheeks. He was not as restrained as Agron and could not hide his melancholy. "I want to help."

She was touched by his love, yet her face betrayed nothing as she roughly took the boy's chin in her hand. "Very well. Take that rag. I leave you in his hands while I fetch clean bedclothes." Agron smiled again at his sister, a broad, earnest smile she could never resist. She reluctantly returned the gesture.

"The boy yet burns." A bear of a man with enormous shoulders remarked, sounding more beastlike than human. His hulking form and the rumble of his voice were intimidating, but his face was more beautiful than handsome - soft brown eyes with curled lashes, lush lips and all surrounded by silky black hair. In happier times, Sigihild would mock him for his feminine features and he would laugh so loud the ground seemed to shake.

Sigihild took the arm of her betrothed and walked with an unsteady gait, hoping to clear her mind. Bruno could see the concern crease her brow and stroked the soft tendrils that escaped her plait. "Ceaselessly. Every night, I pray for a miracle. Or at least some small relief." She said, exhibiting some despair. "The Gods favor him. I know it. He will emerge a stronger man because of this childhood impediment."

"Under tutelage of such a strong woman, of course." Bruno remarked and kissed her hand, fortifying her resolve. She circled his waist with her arms and pulled him to her. She craved her fiancé, but days and nights were consumed with caring for her brother. A moment's neglect, she feared, would take Agron's life. "Sigihild, when will we have a moment to ourselves?"

She released him and crossed her arms over her chest, restraining herself with a deep breath. "Bruno..."

He stopped her with a quick kiss and rested his forehead upon hers, understanding her lecture without even hearing it – Agron was her brother and he was dying. She assumed responsibility for the boys after the death of their mother and she would not fail them. He knew these things, yet he could not shake his loneliness. "You are ever-present in my thoughts."

She smiled and placed her hand upon his cheek comfortingly. "I will come to you when I can. Young Duro shows promise as his brother's keeper."

...

Agron watched, his chest growling with each breath, as Duro demonstrated with a wooden sword what the other boys in the village learned in combat. While he was pleased that Duro had friends to keep him occupied and away from the dank, lugubrious atmosphere surrounding the hut, he felt a twinge of guilt. I should be the one teaching my brother to fight. Duro sat beside Agron, wiping sweat from his lip from the exertion of his display. "Agron? When can you come play?"

The question pained him but he did not show it. Duro was three years his junior and required patience. "I do not know… when fever breaks."

Duro shrugged and leapt to his feet, swinging his sword in the air proudly. "I have practiced many hours; you should prepare to taste defeat, brother!"

"Not fucking likely, you little shit." Agron said with a grin.

"You might just find yourself on your ass once again!" The boys laughed and Duro was relieved to see his brother had not left him yet; any signs of the healthy boy he was were welcome. Agron began to cough violently and Duro quickly administered his medicine – a thick brew of herbs gathered by their sister. Agron gulped the rancid mixture greedily, desperate for its relief. He leaned back on the cot, his eyes rolling with exhaustion. Duro bit his lip to choke back a sob and covered Agron's shoulders. "Rest now, brother. And see another day."


End file.
